“Sweet! Any day I don’t have to cook is a good one.”
I eyed him. Every summer, away from easy access to the school’s cafeteria, he ended up skinnier than the skinniest rail. Even I wasn’t that bad about cooking. “What you really need is a wife,” I said.
He gave me a horrified look. “Bite your tongue, woman.” He grabbed a pair of pliers and dove back into the engine compartment. “A wife would try to take care of me,” his voice echoed up.
“Talk about thankless tasks.”
“What? Sorry—can’t hear you.”
He’d heard me; he just didn’t have a quick response. “I’ll see you later,” I said, and left him to his labors.
• • •
I stood in the open doorway of Cade’s room.
He sat in a chair facing the television, but he wasn’t watching the black-and-white movie on the screen. He also wasn’t reading the book flopped open on his lap. Instead he was staring out the window. What he was seeing, I had no idea, because I would have thought the pleasant view of an interior courtyard landscaped with flowers, bench, and a fountain would have been reason to smile, not to look as if the world was about to end.
I knocked on the doorframe. “Hey there.”
The bleak expression on his face disappeared instantly. “Minnie! What a treat. Sit down, young lady, sit down.”
As I dragged a chair over to him, the librarian in me sneaked a look at the book he wasn’t reading.
He caught my glance. “Can you believe I’ve never read the Harry Potter books? The day after I was moved here, my agent sent me the entire series. Told me it might be the perfect time to think about moving my work in a different direction.”
That made sense. Sort of. “How will reading fantasy books set in England do that?”
“No idea,” he said. “I think she just wants me to read them so I’ll stop saying I never have.”
I nodded at the book, whose bookmark was maybe fifty pages in. “Is that the first one?”
He sighed. “Did you know they get longer the further in the series you go?”
“Did you know you can get them in audio version?”
He blinked at me. “Genius. Sheer genius.” He used his weak hand to flip the book shut and used both hands to toss it onto the bed. “I’ve never been much of a reader,” he said in a stage whisper. “No offense to the librarians in the room.”
“And I’ve never had a broad appreciation for art,” I said in the same level of whisper. “No offense to any nearby artists. Though I do love your pictures.”
He smiled. But then a big fat silence filled the room, broken only by the muted footsteps of people walking down the hallway and canned laughter from a television in the adjacent room.
This was, I realized, the first time I’d ever been alone with Cade. It was also the first time we’d been in the same room without an ongoing major life experience.
“How,” he asked, “did you manage to find me the most successful defense attorney in the state?”
“It was kind of an accident,” I said, passing on the opportunity to note that defense was an excellent D word.
He laughed. “Accidents happen.” He used his good hand to put his weak one in his lap. “There are accidents everywhere, every day. It was an accident that I started painting. A huge mysterious accident that I ever became successful. It was an accident that we bought a house up here. It was an accident that we ever met Carissa. And—” He stopped, then shook his head and went back to looking out the window.
I didn’t like it. Though I didn’t know Cade very well, when he’d been at the hospital, he seemed different. Cheerful, in spite of the stroke. Now he seemed to be sliding downward. No, I didn’t like it one bit. But I supposed that finding a dead body and then falling under suspicion for murder could do that to a person.
“How did you meet Carissa?” I asked.
“At the art gallery here in town. Barb and I were talking to the manager about displaying some of my paintings and Carissa walked in the door. We got to talking, and since it was close to lunchtime, we moved on to a nearby restaurant.”
“But you didn’t know her all that well.”
He shook his head. “I truly don’t understand why anyone would want to frame me for her murder.”
“Well, the police will figure it out, I’m sure.”
Cade’s left hand—the weak hand—started to twitch. He laced his fingers together and looked at me. “Has anyone ever told you that reputation is everything?”
“Yes.” My mother had, on and off for years when I was growing up, and a dear friend, not that long ago.
“It’s true. And it’s even more true when you’re talking about the creative world.” He edged forward in his chair. “My art, such as it is, isn’t just about the art. People buy it because of reputation. My artistic reputation is squeaky clean. Long-term marriage, three successful grown children, quiet life, no parties, no drugs, not much alcohol, just me and the canvas and the paint.”
I had no idea where he was going with this. “So…”
“So if I become a serious suspect in a murder investigation, the reputation I’ve enjoyed for thirty years will disappear instantly and never return. I’ll be given a new one, but it won’t be the same.”
Nope. I still didn’t get it. “Um…”
“Don’t you see?” He perched on the edge of the chair. “If my reputation as the cleanest-cut popular artist in a generation is destroyed, the value of my paintings will drop substantially.”
Now I got it.
“All the people who have scraped and saved to buy a painting, not just because they love it, but also and probably primarily for investment purposes, all those people will be out of luck. Their hard-earned dollars will vanish.”
I squinted at him. “Any chance you’re exaggerating?”
He rattled off three names I’d never heard before. “Look them up, Minnie. All were rising stars in the art world. None of them are painting now, and why? They lost their reputations. Plus, there’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
He half smiled. “I really, really don’t like the idea of ending up in prison. There’s not a chance of getting decent light in there.”
I thought a moment. “Then what we need is to find the real killer.”
Cade nodded. “The sooner the better. I’d call the sheriff’s office and ask how the investigation is going, but I doubt they’d tell me anything.”
“No,” I said, “I meant we need to find the real killer.”
He sat up, half straight. “Minnie, that’s a job for the police, not a job for… for…”
“A girl?” I sat up, too, only I was all the way straight.
“For an amateur,” he said gently. “The last thing I want is for you to get tangled up with a killer. This person murdered once. What makes you think he won’t do it again?”
“I have no intention of getting killed,” I said. “All I’m saying is that I poke around a little. Ask a few questions of a few people. We can make up a plausible story that I can go with. And I’m a librarian. I do great research. I might be able to dig up stuff the police would never be able to find.”
He rubbed his chin and studied me. “Just questions. No sneaking around in the dark of night, no tiptoeing into dank and dark basements?”
I crossed my heart. “And no climbing rickety stairs with only a single candle to light my way.”
“If you can do this, Minnie Hamilton, I will offer you anything you’d like.”
“If I actually do it, I’ll be happy with a thank-you letter.”
He held out his hand for me to shake, and I took it.
“Deal,” he said.
Chapter 7
I went straight from Lakeview to the library.
“Hey, Minnie.” Donna, one of our part-time clerks, smiled, then frowned. “What are you doing here? I thought it was your day off.”